We pulled into the train station to find Dean and Stan having coffee in one of the train compartments.
“Well,” I said accusingly, “what are we going to do? Will the train wait?”
“Wait for what?” asked Stan.
“The camera truck,” I answered.
“The camera truck will be here any minute,” he said reassuringly.
“Oh, really?” I asked. “What did you do, fly it in?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The security guy went AWOL with the keys. It hasn’t left yet because no one had another set.”
Stan and Dean went white and jumped up. I didn’t see where they went or whom they checked with. I only knew the fumes inside the train compartment were so toxic that I had to leave. Simo handed me an umbrella, so I took myself out in the rain, marched down to the Urubamba River, and stared into it wondering where it would take me if I jumped.
Three hours later the camera truck arrived. Someone had uncovered another set of keys. The security guy never did show up and the train for Machu Picchu waited. The lesson? The realization that we wasted three hours worrying.
The train ride seemed shorter (in fact, it was) and certainly less lugubrious than the first one. John Heard seemed struck with wonder to learn that he had actually taken it before.
The crew was in fairly good spirits because if we got this scene we were coming into home plate of location completion. Colin had departed for L.A. several days before, so Stan and I were left holding down the creative part.
With prayers in our hearts we scanned the skies as the train pulled into the station just below the Machu Picchu monument. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to take the drizzling rain at the train station seriously. I closed my eyes and tried to project. Simo lifted his face to the clouds and did the same. I couldn’t find Stan. Perhaps the three-hour wait at the station had prevented our seeing even worse weather. Esther patted my arm.
We piled into the buses and with uncertain emotions made our way up the winding road to the mountaintop.
Fifteen minutes later our fears were confirmed. A solid thicket of fog accompanied by a cold drizzle enveloped the Lost City. Machu Picchu wasn’t even visible.
I took Benito’s “element packet” from a bag. Simo had tied together dried twigs to make a fire which he carefully held protected from the wet. I wondered how long a fire would burn in this drizzle anyway.
I couldn’t find Stan. Esther offered to locate him in the melee of disembarking crew members. I watched each of them as they looked up, looked around, and laughed.
“Are you kidding or what?” I heard one of them remark as he bundled up inside his raincoat. “Who can shoot anything in this and still see it?”
“Okay,” I said to Simo. “Let’s start climbing. If ever it was necessary to trust in creating my own reality, it’s now.”
Esther returned with Stan in tow.
“What’s up?” he asked.
I explained everything that Benito had said. He didn’t scoff or smirk at all. Quite the contrary.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We have a lot of projecting to do so we can get in a good day’s work. In fact the only day’s work at this place.”
The crew looked askance as the four of us—Stan, Esther, Simo, and I—trudged into the fog and rain and disappeared from their view.
The climbing entailed in getting to the top of Machu Picchu is no joke. Even if the sun did come out, I wondered how the guys would lift the equipment to the top. No matter. That’s show business. We climbed in the drizzle with the twigs and the package for about fifteen minutes—straight up the very narrow steps of the monument. We stopped, took a collective breath, turned around, and looked below us. Nothing was visible. It was as though we had ascended into a sprinkly fog-heaven and left the earth below us forever. We could hear voices in the lower realms, but they were only haunting reminders of those who doubted and had no faith in the potential of expectation. Miracles being opportunities that work out better than expected.
We smiled at one another and continued to climb. Near the very top we spotted a flat-surfaced rock that looked as though it might have been used for ceremonies of some kind. We made our way to it. Climbing above the fog still higher, we found ourselves standing on the rock with a 360-degree view of mist and floating clouds around us. At the same moment a giant alpaca—no doubt the one that is said to guard the monument—materialized above the veiled rocks and—I swear—floated toward us. We didn’t move. He stopped, looked at us, chewed his cud, and as though giving us his blessing, he regally turned and disappeared back into his shrouded kingdom. A chill of wonder went up my spine. I had learned to trust those chills. They almost always meant that whatever I was thinking or saying was the truth.
We had already determined which direction was east, so we placed the packet facing the obscured, yet rising, sun. We each took a moment to acknowledge that the sun was actually above us, however invisible it was.
Then Simo placed the twigs under the packet. The packet was so wet each of us dragged Kleenex from our pockets and leaned down to light it. Slowly the twigs began to smoke. Then a thin flame appeared.
We stood up and faced the east and began our visualizations.
“Picture the weather you would like to have,” Benito had said. “Your mind’s picture will manifest if you trust it.”
Rain birds chirped in the drizzle. Stan spoke. “As a producer who has prayed for weather in many different countries,” he said, “I don’t have the chutzpah to ask for more sunlight than we need!”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to visualize a third-dimensional misty quality with sunlight shining through. I’d like clouds to hang suspended in the air.” The four of us exchanged looks as we each prepared to do what we could to enhance Machu Picchu.
Silently the “element package” began to burn. Then it crackled and snapped. Holding hands, each of us projected our collective weather desire. As I did mine, I found myself wondering what projections felt like to other people. Did their minds respond more readily to what they wanted to see than mine did? I thought of all the stories about Lourdes and the miracles. “They occur because people want them to” was the oft-repeated repudiation. Yes, I thought, isn’t that the way it should be? Shouldn’t the patient always participate equally with the doctor? If you believe you are well, you are, and vice versa. Body following conscious belief. It was best never to acknowledge that doubt is real.
I closed my eyes as I pictured the sun shining on third-dimensional clouds. I could feel the fear of failure creep in momentarily. I pushed it away. I opened my eyes and observed Stan, Simo, and Esther. Each was meditating with eyes closed.
About five minutes went by. A spiraling curl of smoke rose above the twigs. Then suddenly, coming toward us up the stone steps, was a man. He was dressed in an official raincoat with a rain hat and had a badge on his shoulder that indicated he was the fire warden for the ancient ruin.
He began to gesture and yell at us in Spanish. It startled us out of our reverie, but nobody said anything. And then, as though we were conducted by a puppet master, the four of us turned and looked at the fire warden at the same time. He stopped talking. He stopped gesturing. No words were exchanged, and as though guided by an invisible force he looked away from us and, completely changing the direction of his attention, walked up the hill until he was out of sight. It was an out-of-focus, dreamlike encounter. He actually stopped objecting to our fire in midsentence and never looked back. None of us had uttered one word.
Esther glanced at me and winked. We then returned to our misty meditation. Then rain birds began to sing again. A rush of energy went through my body. Then I became profoundly peaceful. I could almost hear the clouds drift through the mist. The seven guides Benito had talked about swam into my mind. I meditated on them. They didn’t have form really. I just acknowledged their presence. I asked them for help. I visualized the way I wanted Machu Picchu to look. I could feel the others medita
ting with the same intensity.
About half an hour went by. Then, as though on cue, the four of us broke our meditation. The “element package” was ashes now. There was only a thin waft of smoke left from the mystical ceremony. We stretched, as if to signify its conclusion, and then we embraced each other. There was nothing left to do or say—except for something I felt very strongly. So I said it out loud.
“It will be sunny in about an hour,” I announced, absolutely sure of my words. The others nodded and shrugged. “So I’m going down to the hotel to get made up and dressed so I’ll be ready.”
As I began to descend through the mist down the steps of the ruins, a queasy dizziness came over me. I was suddenly very sick at my stomach and could hardly keep my balance. I thought it was the altitude, or maybe the jam cookie I had eaten on the train. I kept walking. The nausea became worse. What was going on? Then I remembered the small packet of herbs Benito had given me. “You will become ill because of the energy swirling through you. Make a tea with this.” But I hadn’t remembered where I’d put it. I kept walking. When I came to some of the crew at the bottom I could hardly speak, but I heard them talking to me.
“What were you doing up there? Making more rain?”
“When do we leave? We’ll never get this today either….”
I couldn’t answer. Just smiled. I needed to walk until I could lie down in my room. I could feel a strange pressure on my body, a sense of literal decompression. I’d never felt anything like it in my life. I made my way to my room and lay down for a minute. Then something made me get up immediately and go to the makeup room, where Tina was set up. I sat down in the makeup chair. She commented on how white I looked and wondered why I was bothering to get made up at all, considering the weather. I could hardly breathe. I needed to hyperventilate to keep going. I sat there nauseous and dizzy until she was finished. Then I put on my wardrobe, which felt as though it belonged to somebody else. My body felt detached from me. I heard some of the crew talking excitedly outside. With painful difficulty I walked to the window and looked up. The clouds were lifting. The drizzle had stopped. The crew was carrying the equipment to the top of the mountain.
“Hey,” said Tina, “look at that. What did you guys do up there?”
I couldn’t answer. I walked outside. Simo could see how sick I was. He walked beside me.
“Let’s climb now,” I said. “I want to be ready when the sun breaks through.”
Someone had already alerted John, so he would be ready too.
As I climbed I found my legs wouldn’t work properly. There was no strength in my knees. I needed to climb stiff-legged which meant bearing down on Simo’s arm for support to raise my body step after step. Thank God he was powerfully built. The sickness was worse now. It was overwhelming. I didn’t understand what was happening. It felt as though some energy pattern was grounding itself through me, and the intensity of the vibration was more than I could take. I looked up. The sun was breaking through. A few crew members applauded. I climbed higher, wanting to vomit with each step, yet unable to. Simo helped me walk. It felt almost as though he were a battery of some kind—that I needed the physical contact of his arm.
The cameras were set up above me. As I walked toward them a few crew members rushed forward to help me. I explained it was the altitude and a drop in my blood sugar which was creating the nausea and lack of strength. That seemed to satisfy them, but some of them were enough in tune with me to understand there was more to it.
John was ready to shoot. The script girl held the script in front of me. I took a quick glance at my lines, took a deep breath, and was ready.
“Are you okay?” asked John.
“Sure,” I answered.
“I guess when you witch out the weather, it makes you sick, eh?”
He was remarkable, really.
“Yeah,” I answered, hanging on, not eager to spend energy on anything but the shot.
I looked around me. The sun had broken through the clouds completely and was shining over them so as to cast an outlined aura around the ruins as well as the trees. The third-dimensional mystical quality was even more pronounced than I had visualized. It was a poetic painting … perfect.
“It’s beautiful,” said John. “Worth it.”
That was all that was said and the cameras rolled. The scene called for me to walk to the edge of a cliff, look down, and say some dialogue. John saw that I could hardly walk, so he helped me. I found myself lifting my legs much higher than I needed to because I was so unsure of my footing. We got the scene.
The camera guys set up quickly in another location. We got that scene too. All the while I was stabilizing myself so I wouldn’t throw up. My face was white, my skin clammy, and I couldn’t wait for it all to be over with. I desperately wanted a bottle of Coca-Cola. Someone ran down the mountain to the hotel dining room and found a Coke. I needed sugar to ground me. I drank it all at once.
For two and a half hours we shot. I was suspended in a bubble of sickness. The crew wanted to stop and take a lunch break.
“Please,” I said to Yudi. “Ask them if we can shoot straight through. I can’t hold this energy much longer and if I let go of it, I’m sure it will pour with rain.”
Yudi asked the crew. They complied.
Esther came over to me.
“You know,” she said, sounding impossibly assured, “you are going through a cleansing process along with everything else.”
I began to cry immediately. What kind of cleansing? I didn’t know. I only knew it was true. I hadn’t eaten since the early morning, and the thought of rich food repulsed me. I hadn’t had a cigarette all morning, either, which was unusual for me. Suddenly it was difficult for me to be around those members of the crew who were smoking.
We continued to shoot. We shot every conceivable angle of the Machu Picchu ruins so we’d have plenty to choose from in the editing room. I stood and sat with tense rigidity so I could hold the energy, whatever it was.
Finally we got the last shot. The crew applauded. I relaxed. We looked up. As God is my judge, a cloud drifted in front of the sun. In fact, clouds seemed to materialize from out of thin, clear air.
“Quickly. Quickly,” yelled Yudi. “Let’s get a crew picture of all of us here. Everybody line up.”
The still photographer set up his tripod, checked his focus, and shielded his camera with a plastic coat while the rest of us lined up dutifully, feeling the drizzly mist moving in around us. There were hurried shouts of direction. And then something happened which I will never forget as long as I live. The photographer took about five shots of the entire crew. We all smiled and shouted as though the camera could record it. Then, as though by direct cue from an unseen director, the still photographer said, “That’s it—I’m out of film.” And immediately the skies literally dumped sheets of rain on us. Our small band of movie-makers was drenched within one minute. It actually made us laugh, it was so “coincidental.” Everyone turned to me and at that moment my nausea and weakness went away. If it hadn’t happened to me personally I wouldn’t have believed it. But somehow the pressure of holding the energy was released, and with it I was back to normal.
I raced down the narrow steps of the ruins until I reached the hotel, whereupon I collapsed on my hotel bed and slept for three hours while the crew got some second-unit footage and finally packed the equipment onto the train.
In my sleep I had several visions (dreams, images, apparitions—whatever word applies). First I saw Gerry. It was so strange, because I hadn’t really thought much about him since our meeting in London. But there he was—sort of hovering over me, curious and somehow needing to make contact.
Then I saw a funny vision which had such impact that its message continues to hold me in its meaning even today.
I have never been a really heavy smoker, lighting about a pack a day. I never inhaled. It was a social habit, not an addiction, something to do with my hands, or to induce a sense of relaxation by being companionable.
Nevertheless, I stuck to one brand. I smoked Vantage 100’s.
My vision was a huge package of Vantage 100 cigarettes. The package was the size of a human being. I climbed up the side of the package and looked over the top of the interior. It was empty. There were no cigarettes in the package. As I peered down into the empty package a voice rang in my ears: “See to it that it stays empty.”
I laughed at the vision. It woke me. It was as though my higher self had painted a picture so graphic I couldn’t ignore its message.
I am now one of the legions of people who have given up the filthy habit. I haven’t had even a puff since that bizarre vision. I’m not sure I can recommend my method of quitting to anyone else, though.
All the way back on the train I gazed out at the wild Urubamba swirling and crashing against the rocks of the Andes. I thought about my original trip to the Andes, how the whole adventure had inspired me to write Out on a Limb, how the conflict with Gerry had propelled me to understand more of what life meant. And Gerry was still a part of me, still a character who seemed to impose himself on the drama of my life, even if it was only in a dream.
But then what was the dream? Was life the dream or was life the theater? Where did one stop and the other begin? Or was there a difference?
When we returned to Cuzco it wasn’t long before the word got around that I had controlled the weather and made sunshine happen in Machu Picchu on a day that was intrinsically gloomy. After that came the Peruvian newspaper articles that claimed I believed I was the reincarnation of an Inca princess. Between that and the extraterrestrials the papers said I claimed built Machu Picchu, I could have started my own Peruvian National Enquirer.
Chapter 22
The next day’s shooting in the Chinchero market began pleasantly enough. The mayor of the town honored me with a ceremony and a presentation of an antique textile representing the color combinations of the village. Bob Butler was honored with an antique plow which was the symbol of work.
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